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I feel unspeakably lonely. And I feel...drained. It is a blank slate of mind and soul I cannot describe to you as I think it would not make any difference. Also, it is a very private feeling I have--that of melting into a perpetual nervous breakdown. I am often questioning myself what I further want to do, who I further wish to be; which parts of me, exactly, are still functioning properly. No answers, darling. At all.
*
They're all dead.
Beau.
Edgar.
My dear Selena...
The radios went dead months ago. That means Teddy...
Or are we just out of range? Surely, he'd find a way.
"Stop it."
Markus Crowe clenched his fists, long nails digging into his palms, as he scolded himself into swallowing triggering thoughts.
The last time Mark recalled shedding a real tear escaped his memory. It was long before the virus hit but, even then, it took a lot for it to happen. Withstanding every horror, every sleepless night, still tears never came. Now, as the memories forced themselves back into his head, the urge to cry was overwhelming. Out there, he never dwelled; he just kept moving.
Now, standing in a pristine office that mocked normalcy, Mark's mind almost convinced him he was in a simulation. Fresh, white paint. Creamy, gauzy curtains. Polished wooden floors. Patterned, floral fabric on the chairs around the ornate, oak desk. Nothing unspeakable, nothing rotten marring the room. It was untouched. It was fixed. The newness, the brightness of the office dizzied him. The smells of fake lemon cleaner, old books, heavy perfume, and settled dust turned his stomach.
Mark listened to the room's humming quiet, a humming like air conditioners used to make. Eyes darting quickly to the dusted vents on the ceiling, Mark wondered if the air conditioning was running. Goosebumps appeared along his arms as a chill ran up his spine as he noticed, for the first time, the artificial air circulating the room. It kicked off and he noticed just how quiet everything still remained. Just a room, a space preserved from rot and ruin.
Almost a year into the apocalypse, and he wondered how they got their hands on electricity and then he didn't, not caring for such novelties any longer. Missing luxuries bled from his system a long time ago.
All he wanted was his son. And a cigarette.
"Stop." He tried again but they fought for his attention.
Without his son, his people, it was all an illusion. The backs of his eyes stung but nothing more happened. He wanted to cry for the first time in a long time, so he tried to force it. At the very least, to relieve some of the pressure. A lump formed in his throat as a single tear trickled down his cheek. It left a warm trail. He left the watermark to soak into his dirty skin.
